Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (27 page)

“You’re going to lead me back out of here, understand?”

The elf rose, shaking, his knees wobbly. Gant grabbed his arm and started for the opening he thought they’d come through. There would be time for questions when he was back to safety.

Chapter 39

T
he flyers soon gave up and the sound of their wings faded in the distance as they retreated back to the city. Jarlz scrambled up onto his hands and knees in the damp, weed-infested ditch.  He crawled to the top of the ditch and pushed aside the vegetation, checking for pursuit. To his right, in the distance, the city’s outer walls were silhouetted against a backdrop of red glare from the fires that still burned inside.  The path was deserted in that direction.

To his left, the path stretched away into the empty darkness. Directly opposite where Jarlz knelt, on the other side of the path, a thick grove of trees stood ominously close to their exit route.  The perfect ambush site, thought Jarlz, and considered the options.  They could not go back toward the city and they couldn’t stay where they were for long.  With the innkeeper and his family and Amelia’s injuries, they wouldn’t get far cutting across country.  No, the only option was to spring the trap if indeed there was one.

“Stay down,” he said over his shoulder. 

Amelia and the others hunkered down, staying as still as possible.  The festering wound in Amelia’s shoulder was bleeding again and she bit her lip to keep from screaming.

Poised at the edge of the path, Jarlz paused on his hands and knees.  He looked left and right. Nothing moved. He stood up, cautiously balancing the axe.  He waited a moment.  When nothing sprang from behind the trees he turned and walked away from the city.

As soon as Jarlz turned his back, a demonic creature launched at him from the cover of the tree trunks. It was a head taller than Jarlz, and unlike the slashers they’d seen before, it had four arms that ended in hooked claws instead of hands. Its long, strong legs thrust it forward in a frog-like leap. Its first bound took it halfway to Jarlz. It landed heavily and coiled for its next leap. Jarlz heard the thud and tensed. In one smooth motion the beast launched again and landed only a few feet behind the knight.

Jarlz had been expecting an attack but he hadn’t anticipated how quickly his attacker would overtake him. He spun around, the beast nearly upon him, the right pair of claws drawing back to strike.  In one smooth motion Jarlz sank the axe deep into its chest. It crumpled backward, gurgling and coughing through the hole in its chest.

Jarlz pulled the axe free, and swung again, hitting it at the base of the neck.  It recoiled, trying to strike back.  Jarlz brought the axe down again, splitting its chest wide open.  It stumbled, dark blood gushing from the wound, and fell over backward, dead.

Jarlz stood poised, ready to defend against another attack.  Nothing else appeared. No flyers returned. He waited a moment longer, and then whirled and dashed to the ditch.

“Up,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “up and run.  We’ve got to be away from here before the sun rises.”

Those in the ditch clambered up onto the path and started off, hampered by fatigue and injury.  Amelia faltered, her right arm hanging like a dead weight.

“I can’t run,” she said, struggling to stay on her feet.

“Then I’ll carry you,” said Jarlz and swept her up in his powerful arms. He was surprised how light she was, and glad of it.

They managed to run for a short spurt and then fatigue forced them to walk.  Soon they were reduced to a shuffle, fighting to put one foot in front of the other. Slowly, the city fell behind as they moved out onto the plains. The path they were on joined the main road, but they elected to stay on the flat grasslands off to the side of the road. Far to the east where the sky met the Monolith Mountains, the horizon began to brighten. Jarlz
looked for a place to hide as the thin vale of gold grew into a new day. To their left, they found a small streambed whose banks were choked with overhanging willows. Thankfully they slipped in under the whip-like branches.

With first light, they finally got a good look at each other.

Raytheon’s eyes were wide with fear, yet even fear couldn’t hide the exhaustion. Jonathan’s rotund chest heaved as he fought for breath. The tavern owner’s wife, Martha, who was almost as large as he, wheezed uncontrollably. Jarlz knew he must look grim. But it was Amelia that drew his attention. The wound on her shoulder oozed blood and the front of her brown dress was stained almost to the waist. Jarlz pulled aside the garment and winced. The ugly, festering gash was turning black at the edges.

“It must have been an evil thing to cause this,” he said gritting his teeth. “We need to get you to a healer.”

“Not much chance of that,” Amelia said, trying to smile. She leaned back against the trunk of a willow.

“Here, let me have a look,” said Martha, scurrying to Amelia’s side. “I nursed my boys when they were young. . .” She trailed off. A sad, dreamy look filled her eyes. She pulled aside the shoulder of the dress and after one look at the nasty gouge said, “It needs to be cleaned.”

She went to the stream, tore a corner from her dress and dipped it in the fresh trickle of water. She took it back to Amelia and scrubbed the wound hard, making Amelia wince.

Mumbling to herself, Martha went back to the watercourse and searched until she found a slick patch of blue-gray mud. Scooping up a small handful she knelt next to Amelia and expertly plastered the mud over the wound, her chubby fingers working the mud with practiced precision.

“There. That should stop the bleeding if you don’t move too much.” She smiled, and then gently pulled the shoulder of Amelia’s dress over the wound.  “Sleep now,” she added and went over to sit by Jonathan.

“What do you think?” asked Jarlz, sitting down against the tree next to the innkeeper and his wife.

“It’s a bad wound.  It doesn’t look that deep, but something is rotting the tissue around it.” Martha wrung her hands, the remorse clear in her thick-jowled face.

Jarlz closed his eyes for a moment. “Do you know where this stream goes?” he asked, laying the axe beside him and folding his hands in his lap.

“It goes under the road a bit farther ahead and then runs on to the mountains. Although it’s not much of a stream.”

“Do the trees grow all along it?”

“They do, as far as I’ve ever been,” said the innkeeper, throwing one arm around his boy who had seated himself beside his father.

“Somehow we’ve got to get word to Blasseldune,” said Jarlz, almost in a whisper, half dozing against the tree.

“Why?” asked Amelia.

“Barlon’s going to attack there next and with these monsters at his command, I don’t think he’ll wait long.”

“I could fly there,” offered Amelia, drawing suspicious glances from the innkeeper and his family.

“No,” snapped Jarlz. “We’ll find another way.”

The morning passed. Each dozed fitfully, afraid to fall completely asleep, yet too tired to stay completely awake. By midday, their stomachs grumbling in symphony, the innkeeper’s wife produced a small leather sack filled with bread and dried meat. They ate and drank from the cold, clear brook where it bubbled over some stones.  The food and water seemed to refresh them despite the lack of sleep.

Midafternoon Jarlz got them up and going again, always careful to stay under the willows.

From under the cover of the thick undergrowth near the stream, they watched scores of refugees fleeing across the plains or along the road.  Most ran out in the open. A few drove wagons loaded with valuables they could not bear to leave.

Flocks of black flyers wheeled overhead like giant vultures. Several times Jarlz’ group watched helplessly as the flying demons descended on helpless refugees. Screams filled the air as the dancing winged beasts cavorted over their prey. In addition to the flyers, marauding packs of evil beasts patrolled the road. Like a crazed wolf pack they ripped and tore into shrieking groups of fleeing men, women, and children.

As the party neared the bridge where the stream went under the road, they saw a pack of slashers armed with their long knives surround three men on the road.  Silently, the party huddled among the willows and watched.  The three men formed a circle, back-to-back, with their swords bristling outward.  As the first monster moved in, one man slashed at it but his blade rang uselessly off its hide.  Unfazed the monster cut open the man’s right arm with a single slash.  The other creatures waded into the trio impervious to the sword stokes, killing them slowly, slashing at arms and legs until the three men bled to death. Finally, the creatures ripped open their guts and ate lustfully of the entrails.

Jarlz hustled the party away from the gruesome sight. They followed the stream under the road, steadily moving toward the Monolith Mountains. 

For the rest of the afternoon, the party moved cautiously along under cover of the thick willows.  Occasionally, they saw others slipping along the stream.  Jarlz’ party avoided them, not willing to trust strangers.  Everywhere there was danger and death.  They moved on grimly intent only on escape.

The sun dropped low in the sky, and with the coming darkness came more dangers. Shadows could hide Barlon’s creatures waiting in ambush. Jarlz hurried them on, hoping to reach the foothills before it grew completely dark. They were tired, their legs ached, but they kept moving.

Shortly after sundown, they heard loud noises directly ahead.  Jarlz halted the party. In the twilight, Jarlz peered through a curtain of willow branches.  Just ahead in the streambed he saw a lone figure fending off a slasher armed with twin curved knives. The man wore tattered, soot-covered robes that were singed black around the edges. He carried a crude, carved staff.  Jarlz watched as he whirled the staff at the monster and landed a solid blow to the beast’s head. The thing ignored the impact and drove forward.

The man back-pedaled, dodging one slash after another. He swung the staff again.  It broke across the thing’s shoulder. The man stumbled backward and fell. He lay flat on his back mumbling incoherently. The thing crouched over him, knives drawn back for the killing stroke.

Jarlz watched in horror. The man had fallen only a few feet away. He raised the axe, coiled his legs and lunged. Before the beast could strike its first blow, Jarlz brought the axe down hard on its neck.  The razor sharp blade sliced through its exposed neck sending the head tumbling off into the underbrush.  A geyser of inky blood spouted from the severed stump and the slasher toppled headlong into the stream. An expanding cloud of darkness flowed away, polluting the clear water.

“Are you all right?” asked Jarlz, scrambling over to the fallen man.

The stranger tried to find words but none came. Jarlz reached down and with one powerful hand, pulled the struggling refugee to his feet. The man’s once exquisite robes were torn and burned, his face covered with soot and sweat. His sandy hair, like a shock of straw, stood out at all angles. His gray eyes held fear and confusion.

Despite his rag-tag appearance, the man looked vaguely familiar. But recognition seemed tied to the worst parts of a nightmare that swirled in Jarlz’ mind. The sun was gone and the growing darkness obscured the stranger’s features. Jarlz let it pass. The rest of the party gathered together, huddled against the night, worried what other monsters lurked in the brush.

“Thanks,” muttered the battered newcomer, his voice a thin whistle through cracked lips.

“It’s okay,” said Jarlz, and then turned to the others. “We have to keep moving. I don’t want to be near this dead thing at night. Others may follow its blood trail upstream.”

“You’re right,” added Amelia. “We’re almost to the foothills. We’d be safer there.”

Before they began the innkeeper reached down and took the two long knives from the dead beast.  He kept one and gave the other to Raytheon.

Reluctantly the party stumbled forward, still following the stream. Jarlz led the way, his axe ready.  Amelia struggled along behind him, her shoulder throbbing but no longer bleeding, her strength almost gone. Martha and Raytheon came next, and then the stranger, whose blood-caked right eyebrow made it difficult for him to see and he stumbled often. Jonathan brought up the rear, and was soon helping the shattered refugee. The roly-poly innkeeper bent to his new task without a whimper.

It took several hours to escape the hot, grassy plains. The larger moon rose, a full round ball of gleaming silver. The smaller moon was only a faint crescent on the western horizon. Now the little stream bubbled over sheets of bedrock, splashing and gurgling through a narrow, natural sluice in the rugged hillsides. The willows disappeared and only chest-high brush clung to the wet banks.

Once into the foothills, they climbed out of the stream and went uphill, moving back away from the stream, searching in the moonlight for a safe shelter among the boulders.

They found a spot among jagged slabs of upturned rock and settled down in a hollow between a massive boulder and a vertical cliff face.

One by one exhaustion overtook them and they dropped into a troubled sleep. Jarlz, steadfast in his duty and determined to redeem himself for past transgressions, remained awake long into the night.

Clouds covered the moon and the darkness deepened. The distant splashing of the brook and a slight breeze muffled the high whoosh of leathery wings. Jarlz heard the flyers, but could not see them.  He hoped they could not see the poorly armed group huddled behind the boulder.